


Dear Mum

by starlightpeddler



Category: Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Depression, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Malfoy Family Feels, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 06:00:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12006543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightpeddler/pseuds/starlightpeddler
Summary: Albus isn’t looking forward to returning to Hogwarts for his third year, but he is looking forward to seeing his excitable, bubbly best friend. What he finds on the train is very different from the Scorpius he’s used to, and Albus decides to do everything he can to protect Scorpius while he grieves his mother’s death.





	Dear Mum

“I thought you’d send an owl…” Albus says, feeling more and more lost by the second. After leaving his father in a huff he’d been looking forward to having a laugh with Scorpius – his best friend is usually full of bad jokes and exaggerated tales coming back from the summer. Albus is convinced he stores them up when they’re apart just to let them pour out on the train ride to Hogwarts, and he would have been grateful for it today, but the Scorpius he’s found… well, it’s not the one he was expecting.

“I couldn’t work out what to say,” Scorpius mutters, hunched over in his seat. He’s good at making himself small. Albus knows this. It comes in handy on nights they don’t get priority seating in the common room, or when they have to study in the dorm, huddled up on one of their beds because the common room was too loud and the library too full of bullies.

Now it’s not useful. Now it’s painful for Albus to see. Scorpius isn’t hunched over a book or taking up as little space as possible just because he can. Scorpius is collapsing in on himself, his arms tight around his waist like he’s coming apart at the seams and trying to hold himself together.

Albus sinks into the seat across from him. “And now I don’t know what to say.”

“Say nothing,” Scorpius mutters.

Albus searches for the right thing – something to help Scorpius hold himself together in some way. ‘I’m sorry’ is useless. Scorpius knows Albus is sorry.  _Everyone_  is sorry when a child loses their mother. Albus doesn’t have any sweets to offer him – that’s Scorpius’ territory and he’s come to trust his friend’s ability to curate their Hogwarts Express snacks. He wracks his brain but comes up empty.

 _Full of flies and bits of fluff indeed_ , Albus thinks bitterly.

“Is there anything…?” Albus asks. He’d happily take some instruction – a list of things his friend needs. Things he can do or get to help, but he knows it isn’t that simple.

Scorpius looks up at him for the first time, and Albus takes in the state of his face – paler than normal with deep dark circles under his eyes that nearly look like bruises. Albus supposes this must feel like getting punched.

“Come to the funeral?” Scorpius asks. He doesn’t look hopeful. He looks desperate.

“Of course,” Albus says quickly, nearly offended that Scorpius even feels he has to ask.

“And be my good friend.”

Albus doesn’t feel like he’s a very good friend right now. He feels particularly rotten instead. How long ago had this happened? How long has Scorpius been grieving with only his father at his side? It must have been a couple days at least if Draco was willing to let him leave. But even then… Scorpius shouldn’t be here.

“Anything,” Albus says. “When did…”

He doesn’t want to finish the question. Scorpius knows what it is anyway and starts picking at a loose thread on the seat cushion. Their designated compartment is the most damaged on the train, which assures them privacy on each journey to and from the castle. Albus has always simultaneously hated the Hogwarts Express and harboured a soft spot for it. Hogwarts sometimes feels like a prison and he dreads returning all summer – at least at home he can escape the gaggle of Gryffindors he lives with by locking himself in his bedroom – but the Hogwarts Express is also where he met Scorpius, and Hogwarts is the only place he gets to see his best friend. 

“Thursday afternoon,” Scorpius says. It’s Sunday now and Albus isn’t sure if he’s glad Scorpius had at least a couple days to adjust or if he’s upset Scorpius hadn’t sent an owl in such a considerable amount of time. Albus’ mum would have certainly let him take some Floo powder to get to the Malfoy Manor. She might have even delivered him herself.

“Oh,” is all Albus knows to say. He wracks his brain for an indication of what to do. He’s been around grief so rarely, and normally he’d be grateful that his entire family is alive and healthy, but right now he’s at a disadvantage. He’s never watched anyone comfort someone who’s lost a parent or anyone close. He doesn’t know what to do.

Scorpius looks down again, his hair hanging in his eyes. It’s limp like he’s gone a day too long without washing it, which is a sure indicator that Scorpius isn’t handling this well at all. Albus has joked more than once that his middle name should be hygiene instead of Hyperion.

Albus, feeling quite lame and useless, gets up from his seat and slowly moves over to sit next to Scorpius. He wonders what his dad would do if Ron was sitting beside him, looking like he was about to cry. Would he hug him? Probably, but Albus has never seen Scorpius hug anyone aside from his mum, and Albus doesn’t think he wants to remind Scorpius of that right now. He’s at a loss now and he wouldn’t know what to do if Scorpius really did start crying…

Albus does the only thing he knows to do. It always works when Scorpius is anxious about things at Hogwarts, and he hopes it applies to grief too. 

“Aunt Hermione was over last night,” Albus lies. “She was talking with mum and dad and something came up about the Goblins and wand legislation and the Goblin Rebellion of 16-something. I was too afraid to ask her why it mattered…”

“Why it mattered?” Scorpius asks, looking at Albus from under his hair. His arms loosen around his waist. “Albus, the Goblin Rebellion of 1612 is one of the most important events in goblin-wizard relations and the development of the wizarding court system as we know it today.”

“Right,” Albus says. He knew all of this, of course. He’d written the end of his History of Magic homework earlier in the week. He leans back in his seat, arranging his face into the most disinterested and lazy expression he has. “But I just don’t see how it’s important  _now_.”

“How it’s important now?” Scorpius is truly insulted now. He sits up, staring at Albus with wide, red eyes that are painful to look at, but Albus does anyway. “Albus Severus, you  _really_  need to read the chapter in  _A History of Magic_. Bathilda Bagshot has a wonderfully concise chapter – you could catch up in no time.”

“I forgot my copy,” Albus gambles. There’s a good chance Scorpius has the book in his bag instead of his trunk. It’s his favourite and he usually keeps it on-hand when he’s upset. “Mum’s already sending it. I left it on my desk.”

Scorpius sighs and what little bit of posture he’s regained falls away as he slumps over, this time in irritation with Albus, but Albus is certain it’s better than thinking of his mum’s body back at the Manor, awaiting burial. Scorpius dutifully gets up and starts rummaging in his bag on the floor for something, and Albus is pleased to find his prediction is accurate. Still, he has one more question before he devotes himself wholly to distracting Scorpius.

“Before you start lecturing me,” Albus says, as if this hadn’t been his plan, “why did you come back so soon? McGonagall would have given you time.”

Scorpius’ hand pauses over the barely-visible spine of History of Magic. He’s bent down and since he hasn’t put his robes on yet, he’s in just his jumper. Albus is dismayed to find he can count individual vertebrae on Scorpius’ back as he moves. Clearly, he’s lost some weight. The summer wasn’t kind. 

“My dad has his parents,” Scorpius said. “I’ve never really gotten along with my grandfather, as you know. Instead of staying there, I…”

Scorpius trails off and stands, uselessly attempting to smooth down his jumper. He clutches his leather-bound copy of History of Magic to his chest as one would hold a teddy bear.

“Well, I wanted to come back here where I could be with my only friend. At least for a bit. I sort of…” He trails off and fidgets with the frayed corner of the well-worn book and looks down. “I sort of insisted. Fought him on it.”

Albus isn’t sure if he’s happy to hear that or if it adds more pressure. Regardless, he takes a breath and stares at Scorpius’ overly-pale face for a moment before patting the empty seat beside him. They both know Albus is just trying to distract him – it’s painfully obvious – but Scorpius takes a seat anyway and gives Albus a grateful smile.

—

Albus has never spent a lot of energy appreciating Hogwarts. He grew up hearing tales of its grandeur and the castle didn’t have many surprises for him when he arrived. Scorpius, however, found that the school met all his expectations perfectly upon arrival, much to his delight. He’d been ecstatic to return in their second year, and Albus hoped as they walked towards the carriages that the sight of the turrets and towers would brighten Scorpius’ spirits.

He’d forgotten, of course, about the Thestrals.

Scorpius is chattering on about their lessons this year – the things he hopes they’ll be learning. He’s so wrapped up in what he was saying that Albus realises what’s going to happen before it happens. One of the carriages, already full of students, is pulling away, pulled by an invisible being, and Albus freezes, remembering his father’s tale of the first time he’d seen the Thestrals. Albus still isn’t able to see them, as he’s been lucky enough to avoid seeing someone die thus far, but Scorpius… 

“Hey!” Albus says, jumping in front of Scorpius. “I’ve got an idea!“ 

“Oh, no,” Scorpius says automatically. “Albus, I don’t really have the energy for any of your  _ideas,_ ” he says, drawing air quotes around the last word. In doing so his bag slips from his shoulder and he awkwardly scrambles to catch it, giving Albus the opportunity to wheel him around back toward the train.

 "It’s a good idea,“ Albus says. "A safe idea. Not like sitting on the edge of the Owlery.”

Scorpius shudders at the memory and follows Albus against the heavy current of students heading towards the castle. Albus doesn’t have to look hard to locate his mark once they get to the train – Hagrid towers over a slew of excited first years.

“What are you doing, Albus?” Scorpius mutters, hunched over a bit as they approach the crowd. Albus places both hands on Scorpius’ shoulders as they reach the back of it and straightens his friend’s collar. Scorpius Malfoy is never disheveled –  _ever_  – and he doesn’t want to give anyone extra reason to stare at him.

“Can you stay here? For just a moment?” Albus asks. One of the first years has stopped and is staring at them, and Albus isn’t sure which one of them is of more interest.

Scorpius carefully eyes the little girl and she scurries off, afraid. He sighs.

“Sure.”

Albus hates to leave him but knows it’s only for a moment. He pushes his way through the crowd – carefully at first and then without care. His best friend is far more important than the comfort of some snot-nosed first years, he decides, and doesn’t stop until he gets to Hagrid. 

He calls up to his dad’s friend. Albus has never minded Hagrid – he’s always been very nice to the Potters and always brings fun presents, even if they are a little weird. Better than Uncle Neville’s, at least (he wanted birthday gifts, not amateur herbology projects). 

“Hagrid!” Albus yells, but the giant is too busy corralling first years.

“Firs’ years!” he bellows. “Firs’ years, this way!”

Albus stands on his toes and looks at Scorpius, who’s already got his arms wrapped back around himself. Now that he’s not aware he’s being observed, his eyes are shifting back and forth warily. He’s vulnerable and exposed – something Albus needs to remedy quickly.

He grabs a fistful of Hagrid’s robes and tugs at them. When Hagrid doesn’t respond, he yanks harder, knocking a few sausages loose from his pocket. Hagrid turns and looks down at him, a grin growing beneath his wild gray beard. He’s an overgrown, ruddy Santa Claus and if he can give Albus what he needs right now, he promises he’ll ask for nothing at Christmas.

“Albus!” Hagrid cries. “Good ter see yeh, but ’m ‘fraid now’s not the time. ‘Bout ter get these firs’ years off-”

“Hagrid, I need your help!” Albus says loudly and motions for Hagrid to bend over. He’s taller than the first years, but not nearly tall enough to have a somewhat private conversation with an eight and a half foot man. Hagrid frowns and bends down, and Albus gets as close to him as he can.

“Can Scorpius and I go across on the boats?”

“Al, yeh know I can’ do tha’,” Hagrid says.

“Hagrid, he loves Hogwarts,” Albus says, bordering on whining. “And his mum died a few days ago, and the Thestrals… please?”

Hagrid pulls back and looks at Albus’ face, and Albus uses the only trick he has available. He stares up at Hagrid desperately with his wide green eyes, hoping he looks enough like his father in that moment to pull it off. It’s something he rarely hopes for.

Hagrid’s face softens beneath the tangle of wild hair and he looks at Scorpius. Albus see’s he’s taken to hugging his copy of History of Magic again and is tracing his finger over the raised logo on the book.

“Alrigh’,” Hagrid says. “Yeh can ride in the boat with me.”

“Thank you, Hagrid,” Albus says quickly, and much to his own surprise hugs Hagrid’s arm, as it’s the closest thing he can reach. He runs off before Hagrid can say anything else, and by the time he reaches Scorpius again Hagrid has started leading the first years down toward the shore where the boats are docked.

“What was all that about?” Scorpius asks, glum.

“I don’t like the carriages. Do you?” Albus asks. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “It’s really not fair that we only get to see Hogwarts from the lake once. Fortunately, I’m a Potter.”

“You convinced him to let us take the boats?” Scorpius asks. Albus nods, and is so relieved when Scorpius’ mouth twitches into a bit of a smile. 

“You didn’t have to do that, Albus,” Scorpius says.

“Of course I did,” Albus says. He slings his arm around Scorpius’ shoulders and ushers him along behind the first years. “Besides – if we’d stayed at the carriages we would have wound up with Polly Chapman.”

It’s telling that Scorpius doesn’t use this opportunity to bring up his undying love for Rose Granger-Weasley and the fact that he hasn’t seen her yet. They make their way down to the water and wait until Hagrid has all the first years situated in their boats, and Albus watches as Scorpius tucks his book away for safekeeping.

 "All righ’ you two,“ Hagrid says when only the three of them are left. He points to the large boat at the center of the line and Albus and Scorpius move towards it. They step into the mud and Albus is pleased to see Scorpius grimace at the sinking sensation. It means his Malfoy Neatness Sensibility is still fully intact.

Albus climbs in first and takes Scorpius’ bag from him, since he seems a bit imbalanced. Scorpius even lets him assist his transfer into the boat, taking Albus’ hand for stability. He sits down on the bench at Albus’ side, staring blankly ahead into the darkness of the lake and mutters 'thanks’ as Hagrid climbs in behind them.

At once, all the boats start to move. They glide into the glassy surface of the lake with ease, cutting into the water and creating ripples. Their view of the trees is unobscured, as Hagrid’s boat leads the others. Albus can only see a couple more in his periphery.

"Fun, right?” Albus says, hopeful. He looks at Scorpius’ pale face as he stares out across the water. The sun set about a half hour ago and they’re lit by the warm glow of the boat’s lantern. It does a little for Scorpius’ complexion, but nothing at all could mitigate the miserable expression on his face.

Albus looks over his shoulder at Hagrid, seeking help from the only adult around who might know what to do. But Hagrid is looking at Scorpius with pity and just shakes his head at Albus, shrugging his great shoulders. He’s got nothing to offer. 

Albus stays quiet for a few more minutes until they round a hill that juts into the water. The castle comes into view in one fabulous moment.

The first time they did this it was drizzling and the moon was obscured by clouds. Tonight it’s clear enough that Albus could count the windows on each of the towers if he’d had the time. The Great Hall is a glowing beacon ahead of them, and its reflection in the still water magnifies the light. 

Albus looks at Scorpius. There’s a small, sad smile on his face. His eyes are soft as he looks up at the castle, sniffling a little bit as he does so. Albus doesn’t say anything as Scorpius wipes a bit of moisture from under his eyes.

“It still gives me tingles,” Scorpius says. “The castle, I mean. Seeing it for the first time after summer.”

“Geek,” Albus says affectionately.

“Yeah,” Scorpius laughs. “I know you don’t like it here, but…”

“But you do,” Albus supplies. Scorpius nods, his mouth curving into a small frown. 

“Mum liked it here too,” he says weakly. “She was afraid when she was a kid that she wouldn’t get to come. My grandparents… they were afraid it would take years off her life, or that a simple accident would…”

He swallows hard, his eyes still glued to the castle as it slowly draws nearer. “She said she loved the food the most. Mum always loved sweets, and here she could have as much dessert as she wanted.”

“We should have one of everything tonight, then,” Albus says. “For her.”

Scorpius looks at him, and Albus isn’t surprised at all to see tears running down his cheeks. He’d have been more surprised if he  _wasn’t_  crying.

“Your sugar tolerance isn’t as high as mine,” Scorpius says. “You can’t keep up.”

It takes a second for Albus to process that Scorpius is joking, but when he does, his first real grin of the day breaks across his face and it makes Scorpius smile a bit too. Just a bit.

“Thanks, Albus,” Scorpius says, and it’s so sincere that Albus doesn’t know what to say. He wants so badly to comfort Scorpius – to make  _something_  feel better and he hopes he’s done it, at least a little. Albus just nods and looks back up at the castle with Scorpius, and tries his best to stay sturdy and still when Scorpius leans into his side as though he can’t support his own weight anymore.

—

The feast is exceptional, and Albus is so glad to see that the kitchens have sent up some of everything for dessert. The small sting of Lily being sorted into Gryffindor is overshadowed by the misery on Scorpius’ face, and Albus wholly devotes himself to the dessert mission. He’s even foregone his usual second helping of mashed potatoes to leave room for some treacle tart and pumpkin pie, which Scorpius serves him with as much enthusiasm as he can muster.

By the time they’ve had some of everything and start making their way toward the Slytherin dungeon, Albus is feeling well and truly awful. Scorpius is bemoaning that last bit of fudge, saying that it was the final square that did him in, but Albus is pretty sure the damage was done with his second slice of pie and the extra fruit tart he ate. 

The first years are divided into two groups in the common room – those who are excited to be in Slytherin and those who think Sorting Hat has made a most grievous error. Albus asked James last year if this happened in Gryffindor and he said no, so Albus is sure it’s a Slytherin-only phenomenon. The room is covered with students catching up and meeting for the first time. The Great Hall is large enough that the number of students isn’t overwhelming, but the common room is packed, and Albus doesn’t really want to be a part of it. 

“Do you want to go to the dorm?” Albus asks. He looks at Scorpius for the first time since they’ve entered and finds him white as a sheet, his eyes darting from face to face and cluster to cluster. He’s overcome and it shows. Albus places a careful hand above his elbow and guides Scorpius towards the dorms. 

Scorpius is pliant and follows along easily. Albus doesn’t let go until they reach the passage to the dorms, but Scorpius stays beside him, his eyes blank as he stares ahead.

“Common room is busy,” Scorpius mutters.

“It’s too loud,” Albus says. He wouldn’t contradict him even if he had wanted to stay out there. “Too many people.”

“I really just want to go to bed,” Scorpius says. There’s a bit of shame lingering in his voice and on his face, and Albus looks at him as he pushes the door to their dorm open.

“I don’t blame you,” Albus says. “It’s been a long day.”

Scorpius gives a noncommittal hum and tosses his bag onto his bed before flopping down onto the mattress. It’s dramatic, but not wholly unwarranted. Albus sighs and rubs his face, wishing (not for the first time) that his best friend came with an instruction manual.

And that’s when he sees it.

Scorpius’ trunk is situated at the foot of the bed, and on the front of it, painted in bright, blocky red letters is “Scorpius H. Voldemort.”

It’s not inventive. It’s actually rather stupid, and Albus knows it’s not the name calling that bothers Scorpius so much – it’s the implication that his mother went to bed with the Dark Lord, and today is not the day for Scorpius to have to think about that.

Albus’ thumb works over the seed markings along the handle of his wand as he draws it from the pocket of his robes. A cleaning spell and some stain-cleaning potion should do it – the paint doesn’t look like it’s enchanted – but he needs to get Scorpius out of the room.

“Scorp?”

Scorpius responds with a pained moan from his bed.

“Don’t you think a shower would help you feel better?”

He gives another pained groan as he rolls onto his side, hugging his pillow.

“I read something over the summer,” Albus lies. “On the Muggle internet. It said that when you’ve had too much sugar a hot shower or bath can aid in digestion.”

“Why on earth would you have read that?”

“Because you do this at least three times a year,” Albus replies. “That’s why. I knew you’d need it.”

Scorpius struggles into a sitting position, his hand on his stomach as it grumbles angrily at him. Even Albus’ isn’t doing that, but he supposes the stress Scorpius is under is having hidden effects as well.

“Albus Severus,” Scorpius says. “That’s incredibly thoughtful.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Albus grumbles. He shuffles over and sits atop the defaced trunk, letting his robes fan out so they cover the writing. He disguises the action by plucking the copy of History of Magic from Scorpius’ nearby bag and opens it to a random page.

He hears telltale sounds of Scorpius rummaging in the wardrobe for pyjamas – the House Elves always put the clothes away first – and a few seconds later Scorpius appears in front of him. The green glow from the lake gives him a sickly look – it usually does but tonight it’s pronounced, and the circles under his eyes look deep and painful.

“Nice relaxing shower,” Albus urges. “Make your stomach feel better.”

Scorpius just nods and heads towards the bathroom, dragging his feet. He opens the door and the bright light of the bathroom leaks into the dorm room, and Albus hopes Scorpius doesn’t look back because he doesn’t think he’s entirely covered the red paint.

Fortunately, Scorpius is too weary to do anything like that. He just kicks the door closed behind himself, his feet heavy and his arms dangling at his sides.

Albus slams the book shut and throws it back on the bed as soon as he hears the water start running. He swings into action, crouching in front of Scorpius’ otherwise pristine trunk – it must be new – and examines the damage. The paint is nearly dry and is barely tacky to the touch. He hopes it will come off easily. He grabs his wand and casts a few Scourgifies across the canvas. For nearly five minutes he siphons off the paint, concentrating as hard as he can until only a faint, unreadable shadow remains.

For that, he needs his mum’s help.

Albus dives over to his bed and opens his trunk. He rummages around, throwing things onto the floor indiscriminately. His quills stop ink bottles from rolling away and he tosses his scarf up onto his bed. He digs until he finds it – a small bag with a few potions in it with a note tied around the drawstring-

_For emergencies._

_Love you,_

_Mum_

Tears well in Albus’ eyes unexpectedly. He’s never gotten on well with his dad, but his mum… she always seemed to understand him, or understood that she didn’t and listened when he needed her to. It takes him a second to connect why he’s feeling such overwhelming gratitude – gratitude so strong it’s crippling.

His mum is alive and well. She’s at home now, probably cleaning up from supper or sitting on the sofa with a book wrapped in her worn bathrobe that Albus and Lily bought for her at Christmas at least five years ago. He imagines her now, wrapped in the soft pink cotton, smiling as she turns a page, accepting a glass of wine from Harry as he joins her, and Albus instantly wishes he were at home where he could hug her and tell her he loves her.

He doesn’t have time for that, though. He looks at the vials inside – one for stomach upsets, one for sleep, and one for stains. He grabs the right one and looks around for a cloth. If he goes into the bathroom to grab one, Scorpius will start chatting and he won’t be able to finish the job, so Albus grabs the nearest thing he can and heads back over.

He splashes the clear potion onto the green and grey stipes of his scarf and starts rubbing it on the trunk. The potion isn’t meant for knit – the fibers of the scarf start to discolor – but Albus doesn’t care. He’s got a few galleons stowed at the bottom of his trunk for emergencies like this one. He can order another one from the school.

 _Sometimes_ , he thinks as he desperately rubs the potion into the 'V’,  _sacrifices must be made_.

He’s nearly satisfied with his work when he hears the water shut off in the bathroom. Albus scrambles for his wand and siphons off the excess moisture and casts  _lumos_  to check his work. There’s not a mark on the trunk and he grins, satisfied. He throws his ruined scarf under his bed, corks the vial of stain potion, and tosses it back into his trunk. With only a minute left, he haphazardly tosses his things back into the trunk and has just barely thrown himself down onto his own bed when Scorpius emerges in blue striped pajamas, drying his hair.

“Feel better?” Albus asks.

Scorpius sniffs as he pulls the bathroom door closed. He’s been crying. Albus would regret sending him off for a few minutes of solitude if he didn’t know seeing the trunk would be worse. Besides… sometimes it’s better to let it out.

“A bit,” Scorpius confesses as he sits on his bed. “Stomach still hurts, though.”

“Well, you can’t have everything,” Albus half-teases, and Scorpius gives him a weary smile that’s barely visible in the low light of the room.

“I think I’m going to sleep now,” Scorpius says weakly, as if asking if that’s okay. Albus sits up and looks at him. They face one another, and Albus grips the edge of his bed, trying to keep his own swirling emotions at bay because this isn’t about him at all. He doesn’t have a right to feel grateful that his mom is alive, guilty because he’s grateful, sad because he didn’t get the fun Scorpius he’s used to, or desperate because he wants to make his friend feel better. He doesn’t have a right to those things, and decides that the best course of action is to just help Scorpius feel like things can be normal again someday.

“Okay,” Albus says. “But if you can’t sleep or something in the middle of the night, wake me up?”

Scorpius gives a weak nod, and Albus knows he won’t do it even if he can’t sleep.

“I have some Sleeping Draught,” Albus offers. “If you need it.”

“Dad gave me some,” Scorpius says. “But… thanks.”

“It’s okay if you need mine. Mum made me take it with me-”

“No, Albus,” Scorpius interrupts, but his voice is kind. He looks up at Albus and stares directly into his eyes. It’s so sincere that Albus can’t do anything but stare back. Much like he’s been the rest of the day, Albus is at a loss for what to say or do.

“Thank you,” Scorpius says earnestly, and Albus knows he means for more than the potion offer. Albus gives him a weak nod, and watches as Scorpius tugs the hangings around his bed, leaving only a bit open between them like they always do, just in case. 

Albus watches him through the curtains as he settles in, curling around his pillow. He can barely hear the ruckus from the common room from here and he knows it’s early. Their dorm mates won’t even be considering bed for at least another hour. The last thing he wants to do is disturb Scorpius if he can get some rest, so Albus waits until he hears Scorpius’ breathing level out before digging in his bag and succumbing to some of his own anxiety.

He draws out a bit of parchment and an envelope, and settles it atop a book. After casting  _lumos_ , he stares down at the blank page. He doesn’t know what to say, but knows he needs to figure it out now if he wants the letter to go out in the morning post. He grabs a Muggle pen (a gift from Aunt Hermione) and starts to write.

_Dear mum,_

_I love you._

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [ @HPCC-Advent-Calendar's](https://hpcc-advent-calendar.tumblr.com/) Nineteen Years Later Challenge.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters in in this work. All rights belong to J.K. Rowling.


End file.
